Charteris, Leslie - 25, page 1
Leslie Charteris
THE SAINT ON GUARD
PUBLISHED FOR
THE CRIME CLUB
BY DOUBLEDAY, DORAN AND CO., INC.
GARDEN CITY 1944 NEW YORK.
COPYRIGHT, 1943, 1944
BY LESLIE CHARTERIS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
FIRST EDITION
TO
TOM FERRIS
for all the fun of Miami Beach, for the Algonquin Alligator, and especially for some of the more improbable parts of this book, which we happen to know are strictly true.
CONTENTS
Part I
THE BLACK MARKET
Part II
THE SIZZLING SABOTEUR
THE SAINT
ON GUARD
I
THE BLACK MARKET
The headline in the New York World Telegram said:
SAINT TO SMASH
IRIDIUM BLACK MARKET
The story itself was relatively slight for so much black type, but it was adequately padded with a fairly accurate resume of the Saint's career and exploits, or as much of them as had ever become a matter of record; for while the Saint himself was not naturally a modest man, there are certain feats which the dull legislatures of this century do not allow a person to publicise without fear of landing behind iron bars, and Simon Templar preferred bars with bottles to the less convivial kind.
However, the mere fact that the Saint was involved made the item meaty enough from a journalistic standpoint to justify the expenditure of ink, and it is probable that hardly any of the readers felt that the space could have been more stimulatingly and entertainingly employed.
Inspector John Henry Fernack was one very solid exception. He may have been stimulated, in an adrenal way, but he was certainly not entertained. He was, in fact, a rather solemnly angry man. But he had been conditioned by too many previous encounters with Simon Templar's unique brand of modern buccaneering to view the threat of a fresh outbreak without feeling a premonitory ache somewhere in his sadly wise gray head.
He came all the way uptown from Centre Street to the Saint's suite at the Algonquin, and thrust the paper under Simon's nose, and said grimly: "Would you mind telling me just what this means?"
The Saint glanced over it with lazy and bantering blue eyes.
"You mean I should read it to you, or are you just stuck on the longer words?"
"What do you know about iridium?"
"Iridium," said the Saint encyclopedically, "is an element with an atomic weight of 193.1. It is found in platinum ore, and also in lesser quantities in some types of iron and copper ores. In metallurgical practice it is usually combined with platinum, producing an alloy of great hardness and durability, suitable for the manufacture of electrical contacts or for boring holes in policemen's heads."
Fernack breathed deeply and carefully.
"What do you know about this black market?"
Simon ran a hand through his dark hair.
"I know that there is one. There has to be. That isn't any great secret. Iridium is one of the essential metals for war production, and it's awful scarce—so scarce that after Pearl Harbor the price shot up to about four hundred dollars a Troy ounce. The present official price is about a hundred and seventy dollars, or about two thousand bucks a pound, which is still very expensive groceries. If you can get it. But you can't get it."
"You're supposed to get it if you have the proper priority."
"So the Government gives you a pretty license to buy it. They could probabty give you a license to buy a web-footed unicorn, too. And then all you have to do is find it."
"What's wrong with the regular markets?"
"They just haven't got it. There never has been much to spare, and the armament boom has just been going through it like a steak through a shipwrecked sailor. And that consignment that was hijacked in Tennessee about a month ago did as much damage as putting an airplane factory oat of production for six months. It wasn't written up that way, but that's what it amounted to."
The incident he referred to had made enough headlines on its own merits, nevertheless. The sheer callous audacity of the job was obvious front-page material, and the value of the loot ranked it with the great robberies of all time.
Three glass-lined quart containers of iridium powder—the usual method of shipping the metal—were being flown from Brazil to the Fort Wayne laboratories of the Uttershaw Mining Company. They were transhipped from Pan American Airways at Miami; and there was another transfer to be made at Nashville, Tennessee. Since the consignment was insured for three hundred thousand dollars, its actual value, there were two armed guards provided by the insurance company to supervise the transhipment at Nashville; but it is certain that no trouble was expected. Perhaps it was because the value of the cargo was only dimly appreciated, in spite of the figures on the policy: iridium was just a word to most people, it wasn't like jewels or bullion or any of the well publicised forms of boodle that automatically bring exciting thoughts to mind. Perhaps the guards were negligent, or merely bored; perhaps the precautions were simply routine, and nobody took the idea of such an attack seriously. Anyway, the result was already history.
A car drove on to the airfield while the case containing the heavy flasks was being unloaded. The two armed guards were shot down before they even realised what was happening, the case was thrown into the car, and the raiders were gone again before any of the spectators had recovered enough to make a move. It had been as simple as that.
Fernack said: "What do you know about that job?"
"Only what I read in the papers."
"You think some of that stolen iridium is finding its way into the black market?"
"I wouldn't drop dead with shock if it was."
"Then it would really be a thieves' market."
"I wouldn't quibble. I imagine you ought to have a priority number even to buy stolen iridium. The point is that it's an illegal market."
"But how could a respectable manufacturer buy in a market like that?"
"Respectable manufacturers have contracts with the Government. They want to fill those contracts, patriotically or for profit or both. If the only way they can get vital materials is that way, any of them are still liable to buy. It's just about as safe as any form of criminal connivance. Only one or two men in the firm would need to know, and iridium is compact and easy to handle in the quantities they use, and it would be the hell of a thing to track down and hang on them individually. So they have some iridium, and none of the workers who are using it is going to ask questions or give a damn where it came from, and maybe they had it in stock all the time."
"How would they set out to buy it?"
The Saint stretched his long legs patiently, and regarded Fer-nack with kindly tolerance.
"Henry," he said, "this frightful finesse and subtlety of yours is producing the corniest dialogue. You make us remind me of the opening characters in a bad play, carefully telling each other what it's all about so that the audience can get the idea too."
"I didn't——"
"You did. You know just about as much about iridium and the black market and how and why it works as anybody else, but you're feeding me all the wide-eyed questions to see if I'll let something slip that you don't happen to know. Well, you're wasting a lot of time. I hate to tell you, comrade, but you are."
The detective's rugged forthright face reddened a little deep under the skin.
"I want to know who told you to stick your oar into this."
"Nobody. It was something I thought up in my bath."
"If there is anything in this black market story, it's being taken care of——"
"I know. By the proper authorities. How often have I heard that sweet old phrase before?"
"There are proper authorities to take care of anything like that," Fernack said religiously.
Simon nodded with speculative respect.
"Who?"
It was a little pathetic to see Fernack suffer. He ran a finger around under his collar and floundered in the awful pain of a frustrated mastodon.
"Well, the—the different agencies involved. "We're all working with them——"
"That's fine," said the Saint approvingly. "So while we're all clumping around on our great flat feet, I thought I'd stick my little oar in and see what I could do to help."
"How do you think you're helping by trying to make a monkey out of everyone else?"
"Henry, I assure you I never presumed to improve on——"
The detective swallowed.
"In this interview," he blared, "you said that since the authorities apparently hadn't been able to do anything about it yet, you were going to take it in hand yourself."
Simon inclined his head.
"That," he admitted, "is the same thought in judicial language."
"Well, you can't do it!"
"Why not?"
"Because it's—it's——"
"Tell me," said the Saint innocently. "What is the particular law that forbids any public-spirited citizen to do his little bit towards purifying a sinful world?"
"In this interview," Fernack repeated like an overstrained litany, "you said you had a personal inside line that was going to get results very quickly."
"I did."
Fernack tied the newspaper up in his slow powerful fists.
"You realise," he said deliberately, "that if you have any special i
"Yes, Henry."
"Well?"
Fernack didn't really mean to blast the challenge at him like a bullet. It was just something that the Saint's impregnable sangfroid did to his blood pressure that lent a catapult quality to his vocal cords.
Simon Templar understood that, broadmindedly, and smiled with complete friendliness.
"If I had any special information," he said, "you might easily persuade me to do my duty."
The detective took a slight pause to answer.
It was as if he lost a little of his chest expansion, and had to find a new foothold for his voice.
When he found it, there was a trace of insecurity in his belligerence.
"Are you trying to tell me that that was just a bluff?"
"I'm trying to tell you."
"You really don't know anything yet?"
The Saint extinguished his cigarette, and shook another or out of the pack beside his hand.
"But," he said gently, "anyone who didn't know that might easily think it was time to get tough with me."
Fernack looked at him for a while from under intent but reluctant brows.
At last he said: "You're just using yourself for bait?"
"I love you, Henry. You're so clever."
"And if you get any nibbles?"
"That will be something else again," said the Saint dreamily; and Fernack began to come back to the boil.
"Why? It isn't any of your business——"
Simon stood up.
"It's my business. It's everybody's business. There are airplanes and tanks and jeeps and everything else being manufactured for this war. They need magnetos and distributors. Magnetos and distributors need iridium. There are millions of wretched people paying taxes and buying bonds and doing everything to pay for them. If they cost twice as much as they should on account of some lousy racket has a corner in the stuff, every penny of that is coming out of the sacrifice of some bloody little jerk who believes he's giving it to his country. If the war production plan is being screwed up because materials are being shunted off
where they aren't most urgently needed—if the airplanes and the tanks aren't getting there because some of the parts aren't finished—then there are a lot of poor damn helpless bastards having their guts blown out and dying in the muck so that some crook can buy himself a bigger cigar and keep another bird in a gilded cage. I say that's my business and it's going to be my business."
He was suddenly very tall and strong and —— not lazy at all, and there was something in his reckless face of a mocking conquistador that held Fernack silent lor a moment, with nothing that seemed to have any point at all to say.
It was just for a moment; and then all the detective's suspicion and resentment welled up again in a defensive reaction that was doubly charged for having so nearly been beguiled. Now I'll tell you something! I've been getting along all right in this town without any Robin Hoods. You've done things for me before this, but everything you've done has been some kind of grief to me. I don't want any more of it. I'm not going to have any more!"
"And exactly how," Simon inquired interestedly, "are you going to stop me?"
"I'm going to have you watched for twentyfour hours a day. I'm going to have this place watched. And if anybody comes near this bait at all, I'm going to know all about them before they've even told you their name."
"What a busy life you are going to lead," said the Saint.
During the next twentyfour hours, exactly thirtyeight persons called at the Algonquin, asked for Mr Templar, were briefly interviewed, and went back to their diverse affairs, closely followed by a series of muscular and well-meaning gentlemen who
placed each other in the lobby of the hotel with the regularity of a row of balls trickling up to the plunger of a pin-table.
After that, the Police Commissioner personally called a halt.
"It may be a very promising lead, Fernack," he said in his bleached acidulated way, "but I Cannot place all the reserves of the Police Department at your disposal to follow everyone who happens to get in touch with Mr Templar."
The Saint, who had hired every one of his visitors for that express purpose, enjoyed his own entertainment in his own way.
It was still going on when he had a much more succinct call from Washington.
"Hamilton," said the dry voice on the telephone, for enough introduction. "I saw the papers. I suppose you know what you're doing."
"I can only try," said the Saint. "I think something will happen."
He had visualised many possibilities, but it is doubtful whether he had ever foreseen anything exactly like Titania Ourley.
2 Mrs Milton Ourley was a great deal of woman. She was constructed according to a plan which is discreetly called statuesque. She wore brilliantly hennaed hair, a phenomenal amount of bright blue eye-shadow, and fingernails that would have done credit to a freshly blooded cheetah. Her given name, naturally, was not her fault; but it might have been prophetically inspired. If she was not actually the queen of the fairies, she certainly; impressed one as being in the line of direct succession.
She plumped herself down on the smallest available chair, which she eclipsed so completely that she seemed to be miraculously suspended some eighteen inches from the floor, and speared the Saint on an eye like an ice-pick.
"If you want to know all about iridium," she said, "I came to tell you about my husband."
Simon Templar had taken more obscure sequiturs than that in his stride. He offered her a cigarette, which she declined with fearful cordiality, and sank one hip on the edge of a table.
"Tell me about him."
"He's,been buying iridium in the black market. I heard him talking about it to Mr Linnet."
Her voice became a little vague towards the end of the sentence, as if her mind had already begun to wander. Her eye had already been wandering, but only in a very limited way. Nevertheless, it had not taken long to lose a large part of its impaling vigor. It was, in fact, becoming almost wistful.
"Do you like dancing?" she asked.
"I can take it or leave it alone," said the Saint cautiously. "Who is Mr Linnet?"
"He's in the same kind of business as my husband. He makes electrical things. My husband, of course, is president of the Our-ley Magneto Company." Her rapidly melting eye traveled specu-latively over the Saint's tall symmetrical frame. "You look as if you could do a wonderful rumba," she said.
Only the Saint's incomparable valor, which is already so well known to the entire reading public of the English-speaking world, enabled him to face the revolting tenderness of her smile without quailing.
"I hope I never disappoint you," he said ambiguously. "Now, about your husband——"
"Oh, yes. Of course." Her pronunciation of the last word was a caress. "Well, he uses a lot of iridium. I don't know much about his business—I think business is so dull, don't you?—but I know he uses it. So does Mr Linnet. Well, last night we had dinner with Mr Linnet, and—well, I had to powder my nose."
"Not really? Even you?"
"Yes," said Mrs Ourley vaguely. "Well, when I came back, I just couldn't help hearing what Milton—that's my husband, Milton—and Mr Linnet were talking about."
"Of course not."
"Well, Mr Linnet was saying: 1 don't know what to do. I've got to have iridium to fulfil my contracts, and the market's cornered. I don't like any part of it, but they've got me over a barrel.' Then Milton said: I'll say they have. But you'll buy it and pay through the nose, just like me. You can't afford to do anything else.' And Mr Linnet said: 'I still don't like it.' Then I had to go into the room because the butler came out into the hall, so I couldn't just stand there, and of course they stopped talking about it. But I can tell you it was a terrible shock to me."
"Naturally," Simon agreed sympathetically.
"I mean, if Milton and Mr Linnet are buying illegal iridium, that makes them almost criminals themselves, doesn't it?"
Simon studied her seriously for a moment.
"Do you really want your husband to go to jail?" he asked bluntly.
"Good Heavens, no!" She was righteously pained. "That's why I came to you instead of telling the police or the FBI. If Milton went to jail I just wouldn't know how to look my friends in the face. But as a patriotic citizen I have my duty to do. And it wouldn't do any harm if you frightened him a bit. I think he deserves it. He's been so mean to me lately. If you could only have heard what he said to the nicest boy that I met in Miami Beach——"
